Shattered: A Shade novella (12 page)

‘So
you can ramble on forever about the weather, but when I ask how
you
are, all I get is “fine”?’

‘Sorry.’
I rub the spot between my brows, where a headache is forming for the fifth
night in a row. ‘Those are hard questions, with hard answers.’

‘I
can take hard answers.’

‘Well,
maybe I can’t take
giving
them,’ I
snap.

Her
eyes grow shiny. ‘Zach, I love you. And I know—’

‘I
love you too.’

‘—you’re
hurting. But why can’t you talk to me about it? Are you afraid
someone’ll
overhear? I thought our chats were encrypted.’

‘It’s
not that. Just please, let me explain.’ I shut my eyes to focus. ‘You told me once
how Logan wrote you a song. He didn’t sing it for you as he was writing it. He
didn’t show you all the shitty drafts of lyrics and crap attempts at chord
progressions. He waited until it was finished. Cos it was a gift.’ I open my
eyes and look straight into the camera. ‘I want to give you a gift too. Me,
finished.’

Her
face turns crooked – from sympathy or disgust, I can’t tell. ‘Logan never
played
that song for me. He tried the
night of his birthday, but he was too drunk to play guitar perfectly, so he
made me wait. And then he died!’

‘Oh.
Aura, I’m—”

‘So I
don’t need you to be finished, you idiot,’ she whispers. ‘I just need
you
.’

‘You’ll
have me, soon. Until then, there are things …’

I
cover my face. Why is this so hard? How can I make her see that her safety
depends on my silence without
jeopardising
that very
safety?

I
force myself to look into her wide-open eyes, at her chin set in fierceness.
After all she risked – her freedom, her future, perhaps even her life
– to release me from 3A, she’s ready to charge into battle again, with my
secret as her crusader’s sword. She would fight to the death for me.

‘There
are
what
things, Zach?’

I
take a deep breath. ‘Things you’ve got to trust me on for now. Do you believe
in me enough to do that? Do you believe in us?’

She
appears to consider it, her lashes lowering as she scans my face on the screen.
‘I will always believe in us,’ she says finally. ‘I just wish
you
believed in us too.’

The
intercom on my bedside table beeps. My father’s voice crackles from the
speaker. ‘Coming up.’

I
leap to hit the Speak button. ‘I’ll be right down. Wait for me this time,
awright
?’ He’s supposed to take the stairs only when
someone is behind him (if walking up) or in front of him (if walking down).

‘Ten
seconds.’

I
turn back to Aura. ‘I’m sorry. He’s impossible. Can I ring you back after he’s
in bed?’

‘No,
you should go to sleep. I have a massive physics test tomorrow anyway.’

‘Good
luck.’ I angle the monitor up so she can see my face. ‘I love you. Again, I’m
sorry. For everything.’

‘I
love you too.’ Aura touches her fingers to her lips, then to the camera. ‘And
please stop saying you’re sorry.’

Chapter
Nine

Date:
8 November

Weight:
66 kg

Hours
sleep in last week: 48

Nightmares
in last week: 1

Flashbacks
in last week: 2

Panic
attacks in last week: 2

Days
since 3A: 75

Days
until Aura: 42

Martin’s
phone rings beside my bed at 9.46 a.m., finally putting an end to his snoring.
I used to hear it through the walls when he was in the guest room. Now it’s
like sleeping next to a jackhammer. A reeking jackhammer. But my morning breath
is probably just as bad, and I’m the world’s most restless sleeper, so we’re
calling it a draw.

He
rolls over and grabs his phone. His mumbled ‘Aye?’ is followed a few moments
later by a groan. ‘Judy, I worked a double yesterday, and the day before that …
I know, but are ye sure Jamie’s got the flu? Not another hangover?’ He sees I’m
awake and covers the mouthpiece. ‘They want me to work the day and the night,’
he tells me.

‘Don’t
let me stop you.’

‘Ye
sure? Saturday’s our one night
oot
.’

‘I’ll
survive somehow.’ I mean it sarcastically, but he gives me a doubtful look
before speaking into the phone again:

‘I’ll
be there by half ten. Aye, I know I’m an angel.
Whaur’s
my
fuckin
’ wings?’ He hangs up with a beep, then lays
his forearm across his eyes. ‘Christ, I’m so shattered. Feel like I went to
sleep two minutes ago.’ Then he looks at me. ‘Sorry, I know it’s not as crap as
you feel.’

‘I’ve
not got a monopoly on exhaustion. Besides, I’ve slept better since you’ve been
here.’ Once Martin
realised
my father couldn’t give a
toss about us sharing a bed, he’s spent the night regularly, since my room’s
warmer than his, plus it saves him the run down the hall when I wake screaming.
‘Despite your snores,’ I add.

‘I’ve
been told my snoring’s adorable,’ he says, climbing out from beneath the
covers. ‘It’s a snore to adore.’ He gives me a mock flirtatious look over his
shoulder.

‘More
like a snore to abhor.’

Martin
slaps his pillow onto my face, then switches on the lamp. ‘By the way, ye don’t
need to leave this on for me at night. I can use my phone to find my way
about.’

‘It’s
not for you, it’s for me. Turning off the light is like telling myself, “Sleep!
Now! Do it!” Can’t take the pressure.’ I wrap an arm around his discarded
pillow. ‘Then I lie awake, too
fuckin
’ lazy to turn
the light back on so I can read. But if I just leave it on, I can read till I
fall asleep. And if I wake, I can read more. Or not.’ It makes the border
between sleep and waking more casual.

‘You’ve
aw sorts of tricks, haven’t ye?’ Martin stands, stretches, scratches himself
through his boxer briefs. ‘Ring Niall, see what he’s doing the night.’

‘Does
he want to talk to me?’

‘
Dunno
, it’s a mystery!’ he says on the way out of my room.

I
compose, then delete, ten versions of a text message to Niall. When I returned
to Glasgow, he and I had only a few hours to rebuild our friendship before I
stomped it into the dirt.

Finally
I find an approach that sounds like us:
Sorry
I beat the shit out of you. Buy you a drink? - Z

My
phone rings. It’s Niall: ‘Buy me five drinks,
ya
wankstain
.’

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

When
I finally get up at noon, I go downstairs to find my mother sitting alone in the
living room. She’s flipping through some sort of binder, ignoring the
television.

‘Can
I go to Edinburgh with Niall tonight?’

Mum
casts a nervous glance at the ceiling. ‘What time would you be back?’

‘When
do you want me back? There’s trains a few times an hour.’ I can’t be annoyed
she’s asked when I’ll return, since I do it to her every time she leaves the
house.

She
waves her hand. ‘Whenever you like. It’ll be good for you to get out of town.
I’m glad to hear you and Niall are friends again.’

Odd.
Mum never cared for Niall – or Martin, for that matter – when I was
younger. Their rough language made her flinch, especially when I dared to use
it myself in her presence. Have my mates become such model citizens in her eyes
now they’ve regular employment, or has she herself softened?

I
notice the front door is locked and immediately rectify the situation. ‘Is Dad
alright? Relatively speaking, I mean.’

Mum
looks at the door, then away, quickly. ‘He’s been very tired this week, you
know that.’ She takes off her reading glasses and rubs her right eye, as if to
say,
So am I.

Her
behaviour
gives me a sense of foreboding, that perhaps I
shouldn’t leave town. Then again, everything gives me a sense of foreboding, so
I no longer trust my instincts.

Besides,
I need to get away, be a normal lad for one night, not PTSD Boy or the son of
Cancer Dad. I’d hoped coming home to Glasgow would make me better, but my
city’s betrayed me. It’s not been an escape or a haven. It’s just … life.
Perhaps in Edinburgh I can find a few hours of peace.

I
head for the kitchen to microwave some porridge. ‘Want tea?’ I call over my
shoulder.

‘Thank
you.’

I
gulp my breakfast standing before the stove, waiting for the tea to steep. I’m
using the pot I broke last month, for the first time since I glued it together.
That should make her happy. Perhaps these wee gestures can make up for my
general failure as a son.

When
I return to the living room with the tea tray, she’s staring past the
television in the corner.
Football Focus
is on BBC One. They’re discussing tonight’s match between my
favourite
English Premier League club (Liverpool) versus
Mum’s (Chelsea). Brilliant, something we can talk about besides … everything.

‘Should
be a good match.’ I set the tray on the coffee table and sit beside her. ‘Tied
for fourth now, aren’t they?’

Mum
blinks, then focuses on the screen. ‘Oh. I don’t know. I’ve not been following
this season.’ She picks up the teapot and goes to pour.

The
pot disintegrates in her hand. Steaming brown liquid cascades over the sides of
the tray, onto the table and carpet.

‘Fucking
hell!’ I grab the tray. ‘I thought I fixed this blasted thing.’ I run to the
kitchen and shove the tray into the sink before all the tea can slosh out
through the handle holes. I take the roll of paper towels back to the living
room—

 
—where Mum is still holding the
handle of the broken teapot. And crying.

‘I’m
sorry.’ I step towards her, though my feet want to do the opposite. ‘Guess I used
the wrong glue. The heat from the water must’ve weakened it. I’ll fix it again
and do it right this time.’

She
keeps crying, not bothering to wipe her tears with tissues from the box at her
side.

‘Mum?
What’s wrong?’ Such a stupid question when the answer is
everything
. ‘Is it Dad? News you’ve not told me?’

‘It’s
not your father, it’s you.’

‘But
I’m fine.’

‘Zachary,
you’re not fine!’ She hurls the teapot handle at the table. It shatters into
more pieces than I’ll ever be able to glue. ‘Look at this!’

She
takes the binder from her lap and holds it up. It’s a photo album, with a
framed four-by-six on the front cover, of her and Dad and me when I must have
been about five years old. I’m wearing a parka and wooly cap, leaning across
both their laps in the middle of a snowdrift.

Seeing
them hold me so tightly, even in just a picture, makes my muscles twist and my
skin creep.

‘Remember
when you were a boy?’ She gasps between sobs, trying to catch her breath. ‘How
when you had nightmares, we used to make a grand show of searching your room
for monsters?’

‘Aye,’
I whisper.

‘We’d
swipe a broom under every inch of your bed – monster sweep, we called
it,’ she adds with a rough laugh. ‘Then we’d open the closet and turn on the
light, show you every corner. When you were convinced, I’d tuck you in all
snug, and sing to you until you fell asleep again. Do you remember?’

I
only nod.

‘Now
I can’t even tell you there’re no such things as monsters. Because the monsters
took you and they’ve not given you back. They devoured you, like we always
promised they could never do.’

I
cover my face with both hands. Is that how she sees me? Devoured? I’m the same
on the outside as inside? Then I’ve not only failed at coping, I’ve failed at
pretending to cope. Everyone sees. My parents, Martin, probably even Aura.

She
catches her breath, sniffling hard. ‘All I want is to be your mum again. Is
that so wrong? I just want to hold you and tell you everything will be
alright.’

I’m
overcome with a sudden longing to let her do just that – take me in her
arms, make me feel safe and warm. Lie to me. But things will never be alright
again, and no embrace can change that.

‘I
don’t know how to get you back,’ she whispers.

I
drop my hands and look her in the eye. I will not be devoured. I’ll slay all
the monsters, or die trying.